The 2 September 2001 was one of the mysterious dates in my life, the day I became an aid worker.
There are many degrees to be a real professional in humanitarian or development aid nowadays. However, practise is undoubtedly more important than theory when you embark for working and living under sometimes very adverse circumstances in foreign countries.
"Who of you has alread been in an environment of armed conflict?", an ICRC official asked a group of university students possibly interested in working for the reputed organization. Hardly any hands went up.
You only know if you're made for humanitarian work, when you are there trying it. It was the same for me.
The ICRC had a particular ceremony when announcing the first mission. Two weeks into the induction course, all newcomers had an envelope in front of them, the first ever "courrier interne" with their names on it. We knew that inside was a paper, which would change our lives, for at least a year, possibly longer.
The colourful page stated, in my case: "Sierra Leone, délégué".
Argh? Sierra... Leone? White Man's Grave? Is this not where rebels were chopping hands off? Indeed, but things were changing rapidly, and in my first week of actual mission in the field I actually found myself accompaning a child, who was separated from his parents, back after three years of separation.
There are many degrees to be a real professional in humanitarian or development aid nowadays. However, practise is undoubtedly more important than theory when you embark for working and living under sometimes very adverse circumstances in foreign countries.
"Who of you has alread been in an environment of armed conflict?", an ICRC official asked a group of university students possibly interested in working for the reputed organization. Hardly any hands went up.
You only know if you're made for humanitarian work, when you are there trying it. It was the same for me.
The ICRC had a particular ceremony when announcing the first mission. Two weeks into the induction course, all newcomers had an envelope in front of them, the first ever "courrier interne" with their names on it. We knew that inside was a paper, which would change our lives, for at least a year, possibly longer.
The colourful page stated, in my case: "Sierra Leone, délégué".
Argh? Sierra... Leone? White Man's Grave? Is this not where rebels were chopping hands off? Indeed, but things were changing rapidly, and in my first week of actual mission in the field I actually found myself accompaning a child, who was separated from his parents, back after three years of separation.
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| Family reunion in Sierra Leone. It is not an understatement that the entire village was watching! |
